"As she grew older, she became...wild. She came of good family, but her father—if you ask me—cared more for appearances than he did for his family. He sent Sarah's mother off to a boarding school in Boston. This is just me own opinion, and may not have no truth, but I often felt it was so if she did anything embarrassing, she would be too far away from him for it to rub off on the family. She came back after a few months and the rumor was that she had been forced to leave the school but no one knew why.
"When she came back, the town soon saw that she was wilder than ever. Then the next thing I remember—I was only about thirteen or fourteen years old then and not long in the colonies, but three or four years—she had been kicked out of her father's house. Her family attended the Puritan church and some of them would have, I believe, taken her in but for her father. He was a powerful man in both the church and the community. An older woman name of Clives took her in and it was soon obvious Sarah's mum was with child. Who the father was no one knew and so far as I know she never told. All sorts of rumors floated around.
"She gave birth to a little girl but died in child-birth. Mrs. Clives tried to get Mister Monroe—that was the family's name—to take in his granddaughter, but he would have no part of her. Even some of the other church members said the mother had gotten what she deserved and allowed that it was too bad the daughter couldn't have been taken as well. Of course, no one ever said that in public, but ye'd hear that sentiment whispered around the town nonetheless.
"Mrs. Clives was an elderly woman, her own children long grown and moved away, but she took in the baby just as she had the mother and named her Sarah. The father—now the baby's grandfather—put pressure to bear and Mrs. Clives was forced to leave her church for harboring a...bastard." Finneas said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
He continued, "Mrs. Clives became one of the founders of the church you go to now and raised Sarah in it. They looked at Mrs. Clives for what she was: a good Christian woman doing her Christian duty. They supported her. Now, don't get me wrong. There are some fine people amongst the Puritans, as God-fearing and Christian as any I've ever known. But there were also those who, like many a person, were willing to listen to money rather than scripture and went along with Mister Monroe. Most of those people are gone or dead, now, but the seed they planted remains. Even though there's not a person in this town who would dare say anything against Sarah's character, to many, she's still just a bastard."
Garison shook his head, wanting to either weep for Sarah or smash some obstinate heads with the hammer in his hand, or both. He finally said, "So that's why she said something like it didn't matter who she talked to because people had already made up their mind about her."
Finneas nodded sadly but said nothing. Garison, after a bit, asked, "So whatever happened to the Monroes? I don't recognize that name from around here."
Finneas shrugged and said, "That there's a strange tale of human nature, Garison. Despite the fact that they had let him turn them against his daughter and granddaughter, the people began to look down on him."
"Why?"
"Because he had turned his back on his own kin. Kinfolk are very important to people around here. He finally got tired of being looked at like he were a leper and moved the rest of the family to Richmond."
Garison shook his head, "That makes no sense, Finneas."
"Human nature," Finneas replied with a twist of his shoulders. "We knew we shouldn't be listening to him, but we did. Then, we ran him out of town out of our guilt when what we should have done was reach out to the one innocent person in the whole miserable affair. Instead, to cover our guilt we remained indignant."
"'We'?"
"Aye, lad," Finneas said, great shame covering his face like a painful mask.
Excerpt from A Fitch Family History by Maureen Fitch Carnes
Darius returned to the Cherokee camp with visions of being like John Rolfe, the husband of Pocahontas, though he hoped his young love would live much longer than the famous Indian maiden had. Like John Rolfe, however, he had found an Indian maiden who became beautiful in his eyes due to her infectious spirit more than for her appearance, which was becoming more attractive as she crossed over from adolescence to adulthood.
Darius's diary indicates that she had undergone a significant transformation in the months since he had last seen her. Going from a cute adolescent to an attractive woman. And, if his diary is correct, she had missed him as much as he had missed her.
Like Pocahontas, White Fawn was open to the teachings of Christianity and both White Fawn and Bear and their other siblings were baptized by Darius in a nearby creek.
It was not a simple matter of taking White Fawn as his wife, though. Lazy Bear was true to his whispered nickname and, though he much liked the prospect of being rid of one of his wards, he saw also a chance for profit and exacted a high bride-price for the niece he claimed to love so much.
Darius was forced, then, to remain with the Cherokee until late fall before he had accumulated the required price. While the slovenly uncle irritated him greatly (Darius's journal references to the uncle become increasingly uncomplimentary), Darius reminds himself several times in the journal that Jacob worked fourteen years to acquire Rachel while he planned to be able to do it in half a year. With hard work, he had put the payment together in half that time.
Darius paid the bride-price to White Fawn's uncle in late fall and they were married on the first day of December, 1780, by Darius's reckoning. The winter snows had come again and Darius decided, reluctantly, to once again stay until spring. He mentions in his journal that the first winter of married life, with a teepee to themselves, was "idyllic" but it is obvious that Darius was anxious to begin again his journey to the west.
Chapter Nine
Garison, in the free moments that seemed to become more and more rare, tried to figure out a way to go home, back to 2005. He tried to find a way to reconfigure the "homing device" which was to have returned him to his lab in the event of a power shortage, but it had been based on his theories of interdimensional travel and he wasn't sure that the same principles would apply now that his invention had somehow become a time machine. The longer he stayed, though, the more he found himself becoming part of 1739—and Mount Vernon in particular. He was also hampered by the fact that he couldn't figure out how to get back because he hadn't the slightest idea how he had gotten where he was.
He took a part in town meetings and even spoke on occasion at the Baptist church. His training in the Bible was minimal, having only read it twice before, and he had been exposed to very few books on theology. Still, he was a logical thinker and, long able to squelch most of his shyness with a force of will when it came to public speaking, he became a tolerable expositor, taking his turn along with the other men in the congregation. He alleviated much of the anxiety by remembering his days lecturing at universities, where he had trained himself to think of the audience not as people, but as a faceless mass. (Once in a while, though, he remembered something aprapo to the subject that he had read and made the mistake of quoting from a theologian or philosopher who had not yet been born. At such times, he merely explained the questions away by saying the theologian was European, or of some such origin, which often enough was true.)
This all led to a somewhat awkward moment, both for the congregation in general and Garison in particular. As the men's adult Sunday School class made their way slowly through the Acts of the Apostles, Garison decided that he needed to make a formal commitment to God and Christianity and be baptized—a decision he announced publicly at the end of the services one day in July. The decision was met with an odd mixture of excitement and horror. While all were excited to see a soul "come to the Lord," as they expressed it, many were embarrassed to realize they had allowed their pulpit to be filled by someone who had not previously made a confession of faith, let alone be immersed. Garison was immersed in the Potomac that very afternoon, as was the congregation's tradition, but much discussion was h
ad on the matter later—both in formal and informal sessions. It was finally decided that, in the interest of public decorum, Garison would still be allowed to teach in the Sunday School, but would not fill the pulpit for a while until he had had time to study with the elders of the congregation. Garison consented to the decision saying he had always felt a bit inadequate during his times in the pulpit, anyway. Clarence Jansen, one of the elders and a respected dairy farmer, remarked in his slow, dry voice that if inadequacy were taken into account the pulpit would never be filled.
With each day, Garison Fitch became more eighteenth century than twentieth. He took part in life as it was handed to him, rather than sulking about the life he had lost. He remembered often the words of one of his favorite British writers, who had been executed by the Soviets in 1959 for outspoken views on theology (views which, though he hadn't thought of them at the time in such a way, had played a great part in Garison's conversion). The writer had written of a character in one of his books who had undergone a great change and remembered their former life as one remembers a dream. That was Garison. Soviet rule and physics lectures and even things he remembered fondly, like La Plata Canyon or Dr Pepper, faded into the background of his mind and only occasionally surfaced.
Truth to tell, he didn't miss his former life all that much and he wasn't sure why. At least, he wouldn't admit the reasons to himself. Had he been honest, though, one of the things he liked most about his new time that he had never known before was freedom. The concept itself might have been hard to explain, he realized. In his old world, he had been part of the privileged class and had had a freedom accorded to very few because of his station. Yet, he found that a society where everyone worked, and worked hard under primitive conditions, was much more free than the technological one which he had left behind. Technology, he remembered, was supposed to afford its users more free time for personal pursuits, but technology had enslaved his people until they had no personal pursuits.
There was one other facet of the eighteenth century that he liked above all others, though it had taken a long time to admit it to his journal, let alone himself.
October 12, 1739
I have never met anyone like Sarah.
Sarah.
At first, it seemed strange to me to think of someone not having a last name. Everyone I've ever known had a last name, even if I didn't know it. More often than not, I knew only a person's last name. You just assume that, even if someone only gives you their first name, they have a last name. But to know someone and not know their last name because they don't have a last name—it's rather odd.
If Sarah had a last name, I guess it would be Monroe. That was her grandfather's name and there are still some Monroes in nearby Alexandria, though they are quick to point out how distant their relationship to Sarah and her grandfather is. They are Sarah's cousins but they don't treat her as such or in any way claim her. Whereas the rest of the town seems to be warming up to Sarah (after nineteen years I'd say it was about time!), her "family" is still as cold as ever. Personally, I think, deep down they resent the fact that she's the only likable member of the clan for they are a sour lot and likely to give the Puritans a bad name if more like them ever come out of that church.
On the whole, though, I have gotten used to her name being only Sarah. Like any person you meet, you begin to associate their name with them. They are that name, whatever it may be. John Smith becomes John Smith, Ellen Jones is Ellen Jones, and so on. So, while it was odd at first, I now only think of her as Sarah. Just Sarah.
Well, that's not strictly true. Whether I have the right or not, I sometimes think of her as "my Sarah."
It had all started out very simply and fairly innocently. Once Garison had moved into his own place, he had quickly tired of his own cooking where an open flame was concerned, for it ran the gamut between burned and "still on fire" (he had never been that good at cooking with gas or electric stoves, truth be told). Gelena had graciously extended a standing offer to eat at her table, but Garison felt he had been a burden on her hospitality enough already. That left the tavern as his only viable alternative.
The tavern was a long, log building with a low ceiling and few windows. Coal oil lamps lit the room and cast everything in the sort of lighting Garison associated with old theater productions. There was the smell of freshly cooked meat always lingering in the room, and a faint hint of musty ale permeated the air. Mike, the proprietor, chief cook and bottle washer, ran a clean establishment and, while he sold ale and beer, attended the Anglican church and would allow no drunkenness, coarse talk, or fighting in his establishment. It was also closed on Sundays, a fact that caused a few in town to quietly grumble. Their grumbling was quiet for it would too easily indicate that, while the speaker remembered the Sabbath, he did not necessarily keep it holy. It was rare that a woman ate in the Blue Boar, but when one did, she was treated with the utmost respect for Mike would have it no other way. This attitude had crept into the minds of the patrons and, if a woman did enter during a busy time and the benches were full, half a dozen men would leap to their feet to offer her a seat. If no one leapt to their feet, like as not someone would shove another man off his stool and make some room for her.
Sarah had started working for Mike when Mrs. Clives had passed away and she suddenly had to support herself. While living, Mrs. Clives had received a comfortable income from her children, and had taken in some washing to augment the sum, but upon her death the children had, understandably, been unwilling to support Sarah. The children, now elderly themselves, had become friends with Sarah over the previous two decades (almost thinking of her as a relation) and had allowed Sarah to stay on in their mother's house rent free; provided she kept it, the yard, and their mother's gardens in good repair, though. Sarah had somehow inherited or been embued with Mrs. Clives' love of gardening and had no problem meeting the demands of the "rent". Still, there were such necessities as food to be taken care of, and Mike had been happy to give her a job for not only was she pretty and attracted customers, he had always liked Mrs. Clives (though she had berated him more than once for selling spirits).
Each day before work Garison ate breakfast at the tavern and each day after work Garison ate supper there. Occasionally, he was invited to eat at the home of a friend, or still attempted to cook something on his own, but he longed for his electric stove in La Plata Canyon and could never get the hang of cooking over a fire—even one in a stove.
So, as many as twelve times a week (with the tavern closed on Sundays), Garison sat at the table that ran the length of the dining room and was served by Sarah. And, more often than twelve times a week, Garison told himself he was going to have an actual conversation with Sarah, but when the meals actually rolled around, he found himself tongue-tied. He asked questions about the weather and how work was going, but they were meaningless questions, intended to be conversation starters and not entire conversations, and he was often too nervous to fully understand the reply. It was a small triumph when he began to actually eat the food for, the first few times, he had been too nervous to eat and had left hungry but with butterflies.
After each meal in the tavern, Garison walked out mad at himself for not speaking to Sarah and vowing to do better the next time. He even tried to tell himself to relax for he knew that the harder he tried, the more nervous he got. The more nervous he got, the less he actually said. The less he said, the madder he got, the more he wanted to talk to her, and so on. But the more he tried to be calm, the more nervous he became.
What served to exacerbate the situation, at least in Garison's mind, was that he was getting over his fear of people in general. He could meet anyone in town on the street—male or female—and have a perfectly wonderful conversation with them. The tenseness he had grown up with was ebbing away as he became more enmeshed in the eighteenth century and left more of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries behind. So, he asked himself time and time again, why can't I talk to Sarah that way?
Sarah was wond
ering the same thing. She felt like Garison really wanted to talk to her, but couldn't bring himself to do so. She began to worry that maybe it was her and not him as she saw Garison chatting calmly with seemingly everyone else in town, even the people in stocks. Still, she had a sense that he looked at her with something in his eyes that wasn't there for other people. She knew how men in taverns could look at a woman—and had been looked at that way more than once by travelers (or locals who didn't think she noticed)—but his look was not like that. His look seemed to be full of affection, but his words never were. His words were full of...nothing.
Of course, Sarah could have instigated a conversation with Garison. She had shied away from it initially for fear of appearing too forward and because, she told herself, ladies were supposed to wait and let the man make the first approach. As time wore on, however, it was becoming obvious he might never make the first move and it became harder for her to make that move herself. She, too, was nervous about the same things he was nervous about. Due to her heritage, she had never really had a beau or dealt extensively with boys or men (other than in the business relationship of the tavern) and so was a little ignorant in how to go about instigating a real conversation with a man, let alone one she cared for like Garison.
"Cared for?" she would ask herself. Then she would realize, time and again, that she did care for him. Though she didn't know why or how to show it, she knew she cared.
Sarah also worried because of the night when she had found him hiding something in the shed. That night she had almost told him all about herself but had put a stop to the idea because he was a stranger. Now, she knew he must have heard her life story around town and she was afraid what it might have done to his impression of her. She told herself she didn't care what other people thought of her, and she mostly didn't, but she did care what Garison thought of her. Since that night, she had recriminated herself over and over for speaking to a man after dark, prying into his secrets, dropping hints that probably made it sound like she was ashamed of her past, and so on.
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 1): First Time Page 8
